It’s the one in our blood, I guess. The jester molecule. Named after Tom Jester, the 1800s most famous aborted foetus.
Stream of consciousness is not adequate for philosophy, they say. It is for poetry, not for philosophy. Clear it is, though, that we fall short behind the royal Parthenon when it comes to consciousness. Those whose power’s origin is divine most correctly do not provide the rest of us with the necessary legitimacy for obtaining ears and interlocutions at the public square. At most some rednecks chewing tobacco.
Who said we were humans, after all? I asked my valet to prepare the table for the two of us. We sat in front of each other for dinner as though one of us was going Heathrow-New York at the emergency door and the other was the flight attendant sitting uncomfortably in that flight attendant seat of shame, looking deep into the soul of a new traveler every trip.
We ate. And when the candles were already half-burnt a very romantic song started playing. In my head and in my valet’s too. We rejoiced. Past twelve years married with my two-headed dog and I had never had an evening like this.
I couched myself and put myself to think briefly about all the human knowledge. From when America was discovered to the last minute, I mean. Overwhelming, it was. All the languages and people coming and going and Jesus Christ being born and hanged. Very much for me. We might think it would be too much for everyone at that time, mightn’t we? We might, indeed, but we would be wrong. Look. Not everybody’s mind can handle such a Nile of conscience for a period shorter than the lifespan of God itself.
My jester walked into my room that night, while I was being the Whole. I giggled after he slipped himself underneath my bed. (I was in Jupiter by that time). He told me my valet’s cat Clara was behaving weirdly. I laughed again, for I was afraid where that conversation would lead us to.
I finally found, as it was, the human condition.